— У меня правильнописание хромает. Оно хорошее, но почему-то хромает...(с) Винни-Пух.
Chapter 36: Play My Part
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sourstroodle [ Read the whole story | Read the last installment | Chapter list ]
A/N: You know how I said I might change things as I see fit? Well, here's one: Willow is now Buffy's cousin as well as her BFF. I think it makes their bond stronger, plus Lindsey can't suspect them of having an affair, which helps to uncomplicate things in this and coming chapters.
A/N#2: You got that Spike wasn't crying for himself at the end of last chapter, right? (He was crying because his mom is dying, and he's dealing with his conflicted love/hate feelings.) Just checking...
WARNING: Some gruesome revelations towards the end here. Not sexual, but disturbing. I'd like to think it's a necessary evil that is made up for by the mushy love stuff that follows it (and that it's justified by all the hints I've dropped so far). I swear I'm not a sadist.
Roused by a warm light, Buffy opened her eyes to a great expanse of orange-yellow sky. Sunrise was so pretty and peaceful from up here...
From up here.
Sunrise.
She turned his arm, the one that was coiled around her, to read his watch. It was six in the morning. She'd only meant to close her eyes for a second...
Buffy tried to wiggle out of his warm, spoony, too-comfortable-for-comfort grasp, but that only made his python-squeeze tighter.
"Spike, lemme go."
Still unconscious, he hummed in compliance, but didn't let go.
"Wake up. Wake up, I have to--" She scoffed, struggling. "It's morning. Morning!"
He buried his nose in her hair. "Mmm. 'Morning."
"No--" She broke away and stumbled to a stand, smoothing her hair, her rumpled clothes. "It is morning! As in, I didn't get home last night!"
Unshockingly unsupportive, he stretched out on the chaise, yawned, scratched himself and gave her a torpid grin.
She sniffed her blouse -- good, his cologne was masked by wood-burning fireplace -- and said, "Things. I need my things. Nigel must have put them somewhere."
"Things," he echoed.
"Bag. Shoes. Jacket. The things I came here with."
"You had a jacket on?"
"It..." Buffy looked away, "didn't stay on very long. I walked in and..."
"Off it went," he said with a devious lip-bite, hand circling his torso.
"Please," she said, voice falling to a desperate whisper, "I need to go."
Taking pity on her, he picked up the nearest phone and dialed Nigel.
* * *
A few streets down from Spike's mansion, Buffy sat in her parked car, phone at her ear. "Please don't hate me, but I need your help."
"What is it?" Willow asked, "What, what happened?"
"I may have told Lindsey you were in town last night."
She let out a dismayed sigh. "Oh, Buffy."
"And um, I may have... fallen asleep there."
"At William's?"
"At Nikki's," Buffy ventured sheepishly, "where you're staying?"
"This is the exact opposite of careful, you know."
"I know. I know it is. It's stupid, and irrational, but I went to see him, and he was talking about..." She started over. "I couldn't just leave. And now, Lindsey's gonna have questions, and he's gonna figure it out, and I know I'll get an empty plate, but I'm not ready. I'm just not ready!"
"Calm down, Buffy. Breathe. You can fill up your plate again, you know that, right? It's not the end of the world."
She knew that. On some level. But she didn't want anyone else on her plate! And when did she become such an emotional wreck? "I don't know what's wrong with me, Wil. I've never cried so much in my life." Certainly never over a guy -- Buffy always cut herself off before she felt any real pain. It was a fact so established that Willow affectionately referred to all emotional detachment as Powering up the Buffybot.
"Which one is making you cry? Maybe that'll help. With the choosing?"
"I-I don't know," she said, because the truth was causing a panic attack. "I can't... Just please say you'll help me. Just this once."
"Do I have to speak to anyone?"
"No. Text only." She'd written it out already: This is Buffy using Willow's phone. Lost track of time and passed out last night, phone died, so sorry if I worried you! On my way home now. See you at work. xo, B "I'll send you the text, all you have to do is copy it and send it to Lindsey."
With a whine, Willow fretted, "Flashback to junior high. Your secret date with Billy Fordham? Your mom saw right through my charade."
"Linds will be too busy to call back, I promise." Buffy begged her, "Please. I know you disapprove, and, and, I know it's not fair that you can't get married and I can, and all I did was take that privilege for granted, big time, but I swear I'm not using you, or manipulating you, or Lindsey, I just don't want to hurt him and this will hurt him so bad... and when I think about them not being in my life, I--"
"Buffy," Willow said, shaking her down from the emo tree. "I'll do it."
Buffy exhaled her anxiety. "I owe you one. I owe you a thousand."
"All you owe me is a phone call next time you're about to do something drastic. Got it?"
"Yes. Got it," she agreed. "Definitely."
* * *
It was a Saturday when she saw him again. Lindsey was buried in work, so Buffy grabbed a book and said she was going to the beach for a few hours, when in fact she was headed for the Hills, thanks to a text she'd gotten that morning.
Meet me here at 12:30. It's a straight shot up the 101...
Below the address he'd added:
Suggested attire: Cute sundress, no knickers. Pink optional.
Clearly, he just wanted a quickie at one of his secret domiciles. Which for them could mean a few hours, but either way, it wasn't drastic enough to involve Willow. Right?
She drove through a gate and pulled up to a sprawling, modern split-level with mirrored windows everywhere.
Spike, standing outside in sunglasses, jeans, and a dark v-neck tee, ambled to the driver's side and bent toward her open window with a smirk. "Love? Or hate?"
What exactly was he asking her? His outfit, yes she did love it...
Opening her door, he said, "The house?"
"This is your new house?" She got out of her car.
"Could be."
A tan, skeletal Hollywood wife in a pantsuit emerged from a Jaguar, yelling, "Well, Spike? Is this a sexy glass box, or what?"
Buffy looked at her, then at the house, then at him. "You brought me here to go househunting with you?"
"Where'd you leave your undies? At home or in the car?"
"I-- In the... car."
He grinned, put his hand on her far shoulder and turned toward the agent. "Janelle, this is my daughter-in-law, Buffy."
"Oh! It's so nice that you're so..." Janelle noticed that his hand had migrated to her waist. "Close." She smiled as if she'd gotten the picture. "Shall we take a look?"
"We'll take a look. You stay out here."
Buffy peered up at him from the corner of her eye.
"Of course," Janelle said, and gave him the keys. "I'll be in my car. Take all the time you need."
As they walked to the door, Buffy asided petulantly, "What was that?"
"What?"
"You might as well have skywrote that we're involved. She could be calling a tabloid right now." When he unlocked the door, she marched in, but halted in the foyer. Ample light, center Zen garden, dark bamboo floors... This was her dream home.
"She's the hottest listing agent in Hollywood," Spike said, turning the deadbolt. "She spills a secret, she stops selling. Trust me, I know when it's necessary to be discreet."
"Well, why'd you have to go and say I'm your daughter-in-law?"
"Because it's true." Spike adhered to her back and said in her ear, "An' it gets you hot."
She let her eyes fall closed. "Does not."
"Yeah?" He ran his hands down her front, bunched up her dress and dipped his middle finger into her slit, making her instantly ready for him. "Someone knows what you're doing in here. They know you're being a bad girl with Daddy."
"Unh... Stop..."
He let out a chuckle, hand cupping hers. "'Stop', she says, fondling my crotch."
"Shut up." She yanked her hand out of his grasp and backed into the living room, arms outstretched to keep him at bay. "I'm not having sex in someone else's house while the real estate agent waits for us outside. It's tacky, and very slutty."
"How could anyone think ill of you? That yellow frock makes you look so sweet and innocent." He gained on her. "Like a little buttercup I just wanna eat."
She shuddered as his knuckles grazed her spine. "A buttercup is a poisonous flower."
"Ooh. Danger. Pretty poison." Holding her close, he teased his lips against hers. "She already thinks we're having it off, love. Might as well."
"You don't even want to show me this house."
"I do. This is the lounge," he spun her toward the windows. "And this is the view from the lounge."
"Ohhh..." He knew full well what panoramic views, abstract art and Danish modern decor did to her. Throw in his cologne and his feathery neck kisses and she was bent over the closest Barcelona chair in under a minute.
There was no talking, just a lot of grunting and groping, until a beat before her climax, he asked her once more, "Love? Or hate?"
"Love," she said, coming, and that set his orgasm off.
After a short recovery, they explored rest of the property. It was huge -- there were two wings and an infinity pool and a separate structure for staff, but it was still about half the size of his current place. Practically, it was a good choice. Impractically, Buffy could hardly contain her lust for it. Or him.
On their way out, Spike told the real estate agent, "I'll take it."
Buffy nearly chastised him for making a snap decision... until she remembered she was married to someone else.
* * *
"I am not helping you pick out a shower," she said resolutely, pacing her law firm's rooftop.
He'd sent her an envelope at work. Inside were brochures specializing in bath design, and a post-it note that said:
Pick one.
"Why not?" he said. "You'll be using it, too."
She hissed into her phone, "Do not bully me into being your pretend wife."
"I--!" He scoffed. "I'm not bullying. I want you to like the new place. That's all."
"No, that's not all. You want a companion. And you're accustomed to getting everything you want, by any means necessary, but you can't play me like that any more. I won't stand for it."
After a moment, he sighed. "Right. Look. I uh, I s'pose I get anxious when you're... When I don't know when we'll see each other again. I'm sorry if I come off too," he said the word like he was ashamed of it, "forceful."
Spike, sincerely apologizing for his behavior? It was the end of the world. Buffy didn't know what to do with that. Pausing at the edge of the rooftop, she watched two cars narrowly avoid an accident, and turned away.
"You still--?"
"I like the waterfall one," Buffy interrupted. "With the slate tile."
He was hushed by that.
"And um," she glanced at the Wolfram & Hart windows. "I'd like to see you tonight, if you're not busy. I have a big case starting tomorrow, so I won't have a lot of time this week."
Finally, he spoke. "I could move a few things around, yeah."
* * *
When she arrived at his mansion, Garrett and Nigel were loading a large blanketed and plastic-wrapped item into a small truck under Spike's supervision. There was a pile of cardboard boxes waiting to be loaded in, as well.
Spike watched her approach with a sideways grin. "You're early."
She tsked. "Can't afford movers, huh?"
He pulled her toward him by her trench belt. "Some things I can't afford to lose."
Halfway through their not-fit-for-public-consumption kiss, she realized it was his cross they were loading.
Breaking it off, he kept his thumb on her lip and said to Garrett, "Oi, not that. I told you not to store that."
"This ain't going? I thought it was."
"That's being returned to its owner," Nigel told Garrett, haltingly.
Feeling the tension, Buffy glanced to see Garrett carrying back into the house an acoustic guitar case inscribed with the initials LJP. Lindsey Jeremy Pratt.
Right. The boxes on the ground were from Lindsey's room. The tension was because she was there.
Boxing and storing the strange feeling that caused, she stood on her tiptoes and said against Spike's ear, "Show me why I'm here."
He squeezed her arms and growled a little. "Bloody right I will."
* * *
"Oh..." Head hanging over the edge of the bed, she caught her breath. "...God."
Spike rolled onto his back beside her. "That show you enough?"
"Uh huh," she said.
"Good," he said, panting. "Hungry?"
"Starved." She ran a hand over her flat, naked belly. "Like, giant cheeseburger with fries and a milkshake starved. Does In-N-Out deliver?"
"I do employ a gourmet Michelin chef, you know."
"But can he make a good cheeseburger?"
"Dunno," he said, getting up. "Let's find out."
* * *
"Okay, yeah," Buffy said, after tasting the burger. "This is almost as good."
"Almost as good as a burger joint? He'll be so pleased."
"He should be. In-N-Out is like, the Zeus of all burger joints."
"Americans," he muttered.
She threw a fry at his naked chest. "Brits."
"Ow! These chips are still hot, you know."
She smiled, he smiled, and they both looked down.
"All right, let me try this alleged taste of heaven," he said, pulling her chair closer.
"Who said you could have any? Eat your shepherd's pie and your bangers and mash or whatever you've got there."
"I have coq au vin. I might let you try it."
"Oh, wow. You might." She watched him bite into the burger and chew. "Well?"
"It's okay."
"Just 'okay'? Your tastebuds are defective."
"Yours have been regionally conditioned."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. Have a bite of this."
When the flavors in his dish exploded in her mouth, and kept exploding with new notes, it was tough not to convulse in ecstasy. "Fine. I see your point." It was like the difference between a quickie in the back of a Chrysler, and an all-nighter with... well, him.
"Plenty for two."
"Thanks." She dipped her fry in his sauce.
"Blasphemer!"
She chewed it, grinning at him. "Mmm-mm."
"I could slather this on my dick, how 'bout--"
There was a rap at the French doors. "Mr. Pratt?"
Spike closed Buffy's silk robe, and cleared his throat. "Yeah, come in."
Nigel stepped out onto the balcony. "The storage errand is complete, sir."
"Cheers, thanks."
"If there's nothing more, I'll be downstairs until it's time to clear your table." He raised a brow. "I trust you won't be joining us this evening."
Buffy looked at Spike, who cracked a grin. "I'll sit this one out, yeah."
"Don't think you're off easy, mate," Nigel said, wagging a finger. "Next week I'll hang you at the cleaners."
"Take you," Spike corrected as Nigel walked away. "Take you to the..." He gave up and said under his breath, "Bloody Oxford boys."
"Huh?" Buffy asked.
"Poker night," he said, grabbing one of her fries.
"You play poker with them? That's not fair, you're a billionaire."
"We don't play for money."
She stopped sipping her milkshake. "What do you play for, kittens?"
"Items of sentimental value," he said, chewing another fry. "Things you can't put a price on. There's no actual exchange, it's all hypothetical, but it gives us something to fight for."
"A hypothetical exchange?"
"Yeah." He shrugged. "We take pictures of the stuff we care about. Start with the least important, raise the stakes to the highest of the high."
She tilted her head. "That's not why you wanted a picture of me, is it?"
"Well, not entirely." He gave her a tongue-flick and a frisky grin. "But I haven't lost you yet."
Buffy gasped, but found herself oddly unoffended. "I should be mad about this."
He nudged her knee with his. "Why aren't you?"
"I don't know. It's kind of cute."
"Cute," he said. "That's almost like 'nice', isn't it?"
"I hope I'm a high stake."
He beamed at her. "Highest of the high."
Elbow on the table, hand in her hair, she focused on her plate and ventured carefully, "What was it before you met me?" She slid her eyes to meet his. "The cross?"
"Ha. No, not the cross. They don't quite understand the significance of it."
"Why do you keep it?" She posed the question as gently as she could. "It's an instrument of your torture. And Lindsey's. You'll never be free of her if you hold on to that cross; if you keep treating it like it's... somehow precious."
"You don't quite understand the significance either." He sighed. His jaw flexed. Gazing unseeingly at the table, he said very quietly, "My father was killed on that cross."
Oh. Whoa. Huge. Okay. "How do you...?"
"How do I know? Because my uncles did it. They tied him up in an abandoned church, tortured him for eight hours, skinned him alive and murdered him. And my Mum... They made her watch the whole horror show." He added matter-of-factly, "Apparently, I was there too."
"Oh, my god," she whispered. "You don't remember?"
"I was three years old. All I remember is her crying jags after."
Buffy opened her mouth, but didn't know what to say. Of course his mother lost her mind, how could she not? "How could they do that? How could they do that to one of their own?"
"How much of the story do you know?"
"I read a little. Your Dad grifted the Gentiles out of their entire fortune and got your Mom pregnant. Your Mom escaped a convent, went to meet him in London, he disappeared... no one knows what happened. To him, or the money."
"I do." He poured himself a glass of wine. "He promised my Mum he'd take care of her, but a few months after I was born, he split. Sent her a postcard every few months, sometimes some cash. My uncles found her and used those postcards to track him down. So she felt responsible, you know?"
Buffy nodded.
"They lied to her. Told her they'd take her back to France, that their parents wanted her again, they'd even accept me. There's just one little thing she needs to do first." He breathed in, tracing the rim of his wine glass. "They uhm, take her to him. My Dad. All they want is their money, right, but he keeps saying it's gone, he gambled it away. But, now that they've got her and me there, they can raise the stakes. They rough her up, hold a gun to her head. He sticks to his story, so they turn the gun on me. Someone's got to talk then, right? But nobody does. My mum tells them she doesn't want me anyway, go ahead and shoot me. So, they go back to my Dad. Peeling off parts of his flesh. Finally, when the pain gets too much, he tells them where it is. One goes out to get it, but it's only a fraction of what he stole, so they kill him. Painfully. Mum said the Devil was revealed to her that night. I think she meant they pulled off his face."
Buffy shut her eyes, let a wave of nausea pass. "Holy crap, Spike."
"Sorry. It's not really polite dinner conversation, is it?"
Letting out a mirthless chuckle, she placed her hand on his forearm. "I think we're way past polite."
"Yeah," he said, covering her hand with his.
"What did they do with you and your Mom after? If she'd seen them commit this crime..."
"Hers wasn't the type of family to involve the authorities. They only had to threaten her. 'Tell anyone, you die,' that sort of thing. She's the one who insisted on keeping the cross, and they let her. She spent the first few months scrubbing it and talking to it."
"Have you ever thought about pressing charges? I mean, that's a hefty piece of evidence you've got."
"Charge them? For what? Giving him his just deserts?"
"You don't believe that."
"Oh, but I do."
"Spike, you took his name, and you put it on buildings all over the world. You obviously don't think he was all bad."
"I took his name because my mother thought it was worthless. That I was worthless."
"Then why did you take the cross?" Firm yet compassionate, she reasoned, "Why is it something you can't afford to lose?"
Unable to argue that, he looked down and relented, "Because it's all I have left of him."
Buffy saw its true significance then: that cross was the one connection Spike had to his father.
Softly, she touched his face and murmured, "See? You're not all bad either."
Read on... >>
A/N: I know! More dark, twisted drama! I swear the next few chapters will be nice and light and frothy in comparison. (And believe it or not, there WILL be a happy ending. I wouldn't put them through all this only to break them up, I mean, come on.)
A NOTE ABOUT PLAGIARISM: Don't do it. Call me crazy, but I don't like finding my hard work pasted into other people's stories. If I find out you've plagiarized me or any other author, I will make sure everyone knows it. If you're not clear on what 'plagiarism' means, the definition is here.
@темы: Сперто. Без суда и следствия., spuffy, Spike, Buffy&Angel, Art, Crave, NautiBitz, Buffy, fanfiction
хм, какой хрен понятный арт...
